


picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor

by Keira_63



Series: Need You Now [3]
Category: ITV Victoria, ITV Victoria (2016), Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode Warp and Weft, F/M, I hope to be back to happy endings soon, I'm so sorry, Lord M gives me so many feelings, Love, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sequel to I don't know how I can do without, Sequel to guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all, Spoilers for Episode: s02 e03 Warp and Weft, Vicbourne, episode 3 was a beautiful tragedy, first chapter is Lord M’s POV, second chapter is Victoria’s POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keira_63/pseuds/Keira_63
Summary: William has reached acceptance. Victoria is in denial. They are both preoccupied with memories of happier times.





	1. Lord M

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria. Any recognisable lines belong to Daisy Goodwin and the TV series.
> 
> When I first watched the end of episode 3 I thought Lord M was dead, but from Daisy’s tweets and the fact that historically he lived until 1848 I assume this was just the last we’ll see of him on screen and a goodbye of sorts, but he still lives. Nevertheless, the ending for his chapter is ambiguous and can be interpreted either way.

_‘Picture perfect memories_

_Scattered all around the floor.’_

_Need You Now – Lady Antebellum_

 

* * *

_“May I suggest, my Lord, that you put your affairs in order.”_

It … surprises him.

William is not a fool and has known for a while now that he is seriously ill. But to hear it so bluntly from the doctor, to know so surely that there is no getting better, only a slowing of the inevitable.

It hurts.

 

And now the doctor is gone he sits at his desk and looks at the latest letter from the Queen on his desk. It has been here for two weeks without him penning a reply, where once he would have written back within hours of receiving such a missive.

He should write to her, he thinks, just a short note so that she does not worry.

But he does not know what to say, and he fears that if he is not careful his writing will take on a fatalistic tone that will open the Queen’s eyes to the reality of the illness he has tried so hard to keep from her.

He looks again at the letter, imagines picking up his pen to write a cheerful response focusing on his greenhouse and the rooks rather than the doctor’s visits, leeches and countless treatments.

He finds he does not have the energy.

The letter remains unanswered.

 

* * *

 

Emma finds him in his greenhouse.

The doctor has suggested that he work there only once or twice a week but he finds himself unable to stay away. It is the one place he feels truly comfortable, surrounded by the plants that interest him with work enough to keep his hands and mind busy. And he finds that he feels closer to the Queen he is now far away from, surrounded by the flowers he once sent her and the orchids he tends to so carefully.

“I have brought you a letter from the Queen,” she tells him.

He is not surprised. The Queen is not exactly known for her patience – he remembers that particular trait of hers well and knows that not even marriage will have changed it.

“You should have told me you were coming,” he tells Emma, trying very much to seem like his old self, “I would have arranged all manner of entertainment.”

“If I’d told you I was coming,” says Emma with a chastising look, “you would have found a way to put me off.”

“Yes, well that’s probably true,” he admits as he takes a seat, “I’ve become something of a hermit of late.”

He is changed from the man who once spent so much of his life in society. He can no longer keep up his old pace and he does not really want to – the hustle and bustle of life in London has lost much of its appeal since his resignation as Prime Minister and his separation from the Queen whose presence had kept him feeling young.

  
“The Queen would like to know why you haven’t answered her letters.”

William sighs, and when he speaks it is with more effort than it usually takes, “I’ve found myself with nothing to say.”

It is true. He cannot write to her in the way he once did and his mind-set at the moment is not at all conducive to correspondence. 

“I think she would find that hard to believe,” Emma gives him a small smile but he finds her cannot respond in kind.

“Well, what to tell her … tell her there’s nothing wrong with me apart from congenital laziness. How’s that?”

Emma shakes her head slightly, but there is no smile on her face now, just genuine concern. They both know it is not an excuse the Queen will accept, and he thinks Emma knows he is lying to him.

He feels bad, deceiving his best friend this way, but he does not want news of his illness to spread to the Queen.

He would rather she remember him as he was, in those golden days of her early reign, than as the tired old man he feels he is now.

And she does not need troubling over him now, with a second pregnancy, a baby and all her duties to attend to.

He will not be a burden, not for her.

 

* * *

 

Days later, William pours himself a drink as he contemplates the envelope in front of him sent by the Queen.

In some ways he is glad that she has not given up writing despite his lack of response. It reminds him that even now she is married she still cares. But sometimes he wishes she would stop, if only to give him a definite ending to their story – every letter is a gift, but also a curse, and he can never decide whether to be pleased or pained by the post’s arrival.

 

He takes a breath and opens the envelope.

An invitation to a _Bal Costumé_ at Buckingham Palace.

He knows immediately that he should not go, that his doctor would be horrified to realise he is even contemplating such an exertion.

But to see the Queen again … it is a temptation he is unsure he can resist.

 

* * *

 

“The whole of London is in a state of excitement about the ball,” Emma tells him when she comes to visit, “I shall be going as the Abbess of Walsingham.”

“A woman who wields power with discretion,” William raises an eyebrow and smiles at his friend’s apt choice.

“And you? Have you chosen a costume?”

She seems almost nervous to ask, as if she expects him to say he will not attend. It is true that he should probably stay at home, but he has given in to the urge to see the Queen and will go, consequences be damned.

He is going to die soon enough, after all, and may as well enjoy the time he has left when he can.

 

“I thought I might go as Dante,” he tells her, “on his way to paradise, not the other place.”

Of course William has never been the most reverent of Christians. Even now, as death comes ever closer, he does not go to church if he can help it. Churches are not for him, he thinks, and though he takes a great interest in the study of religion and philosophy, he knows he’ll never be exactly regular in his practice of religion.

And his life has not exactly been the sort of moral tale that normally ends in paradise.

But he hopes, if only a hope for some peace.

And so Dante is his choice. But whether it is a Dante on his way to paradise or hell … well that is for the fates to decide.

 

“So you are going to come?” says Emma with a little concern.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he answers, quickly and a little sharply, though he ducks his head as he thinks of the myriad of reasons why he should not attend.

But he does not have the self-control to stay away, not now.

He has to see her.

 

* * *

 

This is the second time that he has dressed up for a ball with deeper meaning.

It rather suits him now, this costume. Easy to hide in, to stay in the shadows.

Once he dressed as Leicester, back when his grip was strong and not weakening, when his hair was more dark than grey, when his life was still full.

Now he feels closer to death than life, and his choice of costume is even more appropriate than Emma’s is.

Once he would have been at the centre of the ball, but now he hovers on the edges, half thinking that perhaps he should not have come.

 

\--------------------

 

He sees her trip slightly down the stairs and automatically holds at a hand to steady her.

“Can I be of assistance, Ma’am?”

“Thank you,” she says, before she catches a glimpse of his face and laughs delightedly, “Lord M.”

The warmth of her greeting and the real contentment she seems to feel in his presence bring him more pleasure than he would be able to articulate.

“My disguise is not very effective, it seems.”

But he does not care. Because he is once more with the Queen, smiling, feeling more like his old self than he has for some time, and happier than he has been since her visit to his greenhouse.

“I am so glad you could come. Why I see so little of you now.”

There is a small rebuke in her statement but he forgives her, for she does not understand why he stays away.

“Well I am no longer your Prime Minister, Ma’am, and we’re both rather busy elsewhere.”

He with his greenhouse and his books, and she with her country, her husband and her child.

“I suppose your orchids must be very time-consuming.”

“Very,” he says with an amused tilt of his head, for they are the flowers he always takes most care with, the ones that always remind him of her.

  
“I did wonder if you might be unwell,” she ventures a little shyly after a moment.

“Illness is for people with nothing better to do, Ma’am,” he says dismissively, hoping to steer her away from the truth.

She seems to believe him and takes his insistence on his good health as an excuse to chide him for not writing.

“Well I would if I thought you really needed my counsel, Ma’am,” he tells her, “but you’re quite capable now of going your own way. You don’t need me to tell you when you’re doing the right thing.”

She smiles briefly, but he senses it is not genuine and though his words have to be said he is sorry to have upset her.

“I see … perhaps you are right, Lord Melbourne. After all, we cannot be as we were.”

He wishes they could be. She probably doesn’t realise how badly he wants things to be as they were, to go back to those days that were some of the best of his life. But now, especially with the doctor’s diagnosis, he knows that for her sake they must maintain a distance.

“No indeed,” he agrees as they accept drinks from a passing servant and he tries not to wince at her use of Lord Melbourne over Lord M, for she only uses the former when she is displeased with what he has said.

Her words hurt, though it has been him who has pushed her to them and him who knows how necessary it is for her to cease any reliance on him. She is capable enough now and he wants her to learn to trust her own judgement.

She turns to nod at a passing guest and he feels a sudden turn come on, his right hand grasping on to his glass and gripping tightly to prevent any shakes.

“Shall we join the party?” asks the Queen, her momentary hurt having seemingly passed.

He nods, trying to shake away the vestiges of his odd turn, and then follows her in to the ballroom.

 

\--------------------

 

“What a magnificent spectacle, Ma’am,” he tells her as the stand surveying the ball. 

“My current Prime Minister thinks it’s all together too splendid,” the Queen admits, “but look at all the beautiful silk, woven especially for the occasion. I want this ball to be a symbol of how the crown can help the people.”

He is proud of her attempts to help, but William finds he cannot quite attend to the Queen’s words where usually he would pay close attention to anything she says – his mind, as it has been a little too often of late … is focused on the weakness in his arm and a feeling of dizziness rather than what the Queen is saying.

“You make a very persuasive case, Ma’am,” he answers in a distracted way,

“And you agree with me?”

 “I think the ball has many admirable features.”

She looks at Albert, “I wanted him to have his own crown.”

Of course she does. Though conscious of her own power he knows she has always felt bad that she could not give the Prince what he really wants. William only hopes that this costume crown does not give the Prince even more of a craving for power – he is an able man but it would not do for him to try and usurp authority from the Queen.

He says nothing of this, though, knowing how sensitive the Queen can be about the issue. Instead he notes that the Prince and silk-weavers must be grateful.

 

She is silent for a moment, and then … “you don’t talk like you used to,” she says softly.

“I’m out of practice, Ma’am,” he tells her, trying to inject a confidence in his voice that he does not feel, to make her believe that it is his isolation that makes him quieter than he once was, rather than an illness and his mourning for the time when they were everything to each other.

He had forgotten how she can catch little details, how she has always been able to read his moods better than almost anyone else. Even now she still knows him so well.

 

But thankfully his excuse seems to have satisfied her for the moment. She looks up, eyes bright, at the sound of the music beginning once more.

“Shall we dance? After all it won’t be long until my dancing days are over.”

He protests, sure that if the ball is a danger in his state of ill-health then to dance would be tempting fate too far, “I would like to, Ma’am, but I …”

“But it is a waltz, Lord M,” the Queen protests, and she looks at him with such hopeful, pleading gaze that he cannot refuse her.

“In that case,” he tells her “we must seize the moment.”

After all, he thinks as he leads her out to dance, he will probably never have this opportunity again.

 

“You know, all those years growing up in Kensington, I never knew what it meant to be happy.”

He can well imagine that, with Sir John Conroy about and the Duchess of Kent led entirely by the odious man.

“But you knew it was possible,” he says.

“Oh I knew I would make my own way,” she agrees with certainty, “… one day.”

He can well believe it. The Queen has such spirit and determination that she would not have been kept down for long, even by Conroy and the other suppressing influences at Kensington.

“There could be no doubt about that, Ma’am. I really do think that you and the Prince,” he smiles, a little sadly, “are just what the country needs. You’re a beacon of … you’re a beacon of …”

He sees the alarm in her eyes as he loses track of his words and feels himself going dizzy.

“Whatever’s the matter?” she asks him, worry clear in her voice as he tries to find something, anything, to lean against.

He makes no answer, just a muted groan.

Why, he thinks, did this have to happen now? He is so desperate for the Queen not to know the true extent of his ill-health, but how can he explain it away after this?

Thankfully, Emma appears. He can vaguely hear her speaking with the Queen behind him but he cannot focus on their words.

He finds something to lean on, finally, and tries to catch his breath.

 

When William sees Emma (who has thankfully managed to manoeuvre the Queen away from the truth) he sighs and tries to smile, “you don’t miss much, do you Emma?”

“I have spent my life watching you, William.”

He is so grateful to Emma, and also very sorry for the strain he is putting on her. She is his best friend and he knows it must be hurting her to see him like this.

He says nothing, but he looks at her with an apology in his eyes. And though he can see the worry in her expression, he also sees the softening look, the forgiveness for his deception.

He does not deserve a friend like Emma. But he is very glad to have her.

 

* * *

 

He goes to the old parliament building.

He does not miss the House but he finds he cannot leave London without visiting one last time.

A goodbye of sorts to the place that has taken up so much of his life.

Perhaps his illness has made him sentimental.

 

“Lord Melbourne.”

William looks up at the sound of Prince Albert’s voice and, with more shakiness than he would like to have betrayed, he stands to greet the Prince.

“I was admiring the ceiling,” he admits before they take a seat, “it’s five hundred years old. I gave the order to save it from the fire. I sometimes think it is my most lasting achievement.”

“It is magnificent. Lord Melbourne, did you know that Sir Robert Peel has asked me to be the patron of the new parliament building?”

William brightens at that, genuinely enthusiastic, “oh, capital idea. Now that’s a job well worth doing.”

The Prince smiles in a way William has rarely seen him do, “you think the parliament will listen to the ideas of a foreign prince?”

“Oh,” he laughs at the thought of the squabbling men that make up the government, “well there may be a few grumbles, but no I think a lot of them would be very pleased to have a disinterested party in charge. No, I know you’ll make a good job of it.”

And he finds he really means what he says. The Prince has his flaws, but so do all men, and this is a project that he thinks will use the Prince’s talents well.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

William shrugs, “I wish I’d built something now. Left some sort of impression on this country.”

“You were the Prime Minister,” the Prince reminds him.

“Oh any damn fool can be Prime Minister,” he admits, “but to leave behind a thing of beauty, something like this, something the people will marvel over centuries from now, that’s … that’s worth living for.”

 

It has never bothered him much before, the fact that he leaves no real impression behind from his time as Prime Minister.

The role had for so long been such a chore to him, almost a necessary evil. Politics interests him but government can be bothersome, and he spent so much time trying to keep his own party from fracturing that he barely had time to consider actually doing anything but keep his government shakily afloat.

Besides, he has never been a reforming man. Change for change’s sake is something he despises, and it so often seems that the trouble caused by reform far outweighs any benefits.

And he was often so surprised by the mere fact that he w _as_ Prime Minister that he never thought much of what he would leave behind.

 

Now he feels differently. Now he wishes he had done _something_.

It is the realisation and acceptance of the fact that he is dying that has made him consider his own legacy.

He kept his government in power for longer than anyone (himself included) expected, but he has not much claim to fame beyond the scandals that occurred in his personal life and during his term as Prime Minister. Still, he can regret the way the Bedchamber Crisis (as they now call it) was handled, but he finds he cannot regret that the Queen’s manoeuvrings kept him close to her for a while longer.

But none of this gives him a legacy like the ones his predecessors have left behind.

It is funny. He has never cared much about politics, not the way so many of his colleagues do. For him it has so often been merely a way to pass the time and keep his brain engaged. Yet now he mourns the fact that there is nothing for him to be remembered by.

 

Prince Albert’s voice cuts into his musings, “you are in an elegiac mood, Lord Melbourne.”

“Elegiac. Yes, I suppose I am,” he agrees.

“Please, sir, forgive me for asking, but erm, are you quite well?”

William looks at the Prince, fully intending to give him the same line he offers anyone who inquires after his health. But then he finds himself admitting the truth.

“No, I can't say that I am, sir … I can't say that I am.”

It is the first time that he has admitted it out loud, and that his revelation has been to Prince Albert of all people surprises him. And yet perhaps it is for the best, for the Prince will be the one best placed to comfort the Queen when the time comes. It is easier, too, to give the truth to someone less emotionally involved than either the Queen or Emma.

Now, when the Prince looks at him, it is with a sincere sorrow that rather touches William. And there is something in his look that tells William that the Prince will, when the time comes, look after the Queen.

He has never particularly liked Prince Albert, but in this moment William is thankful for him.

And, finally, there is a sort of peace between them.  


* * *

 

“Her Majesty the Queen,” his butler announces as he sits in his chair the day before his planned return to Brocket Hall.

Before William can even think of attempting to compose himself, the Queen enters the room with an energetic countenance, “I am glad to have caught you before you disappeared back to Brocket Hall.”

“Your Majesty,” he says, flustered but trying to appear unruffled by her sudden appearance, “please allow me to apologise for not saying good night at the ball.”

The effort of standing up makes him shaky and he hopes she does not hear too much fatigue in his voice.

“There is no need,” she says as she offers him her hand.

He grasps it with both of his own hands, holding on probably a little too long to be entirely appropriate, and presses a reverent kiss to her glove.

“Please, sit,” she says and he does so with no delay, too tired to attempt graceful movements and instead slumping into his chair with great relief.

 

“I have brought you something,” she tells him, picking up a shawl-covered object and bringing it over to the table next to him.

He is curious, and glad of the emotion for recently he finds it hard to feel anything other than exhaustion.

She unveils a bird cage with a stuffed bird within it and he watches as she fiddles with something on the base of the cage.

“You just wind it up here … and you can have music whenever you want.”

He watches it with interest, but he watches the Queen more, drinks in her image and her every minute expression.

“Mozart,” she tells him, “your favourite.”

She remembers. It is a little thing but it means so much to him.

He smiles at her, “it's most ingenious, Ma'am.”

He pauses, feels a twinge of pain and hopes his voice does not come out too choked, “but may I ask, what have I done to deserve such a magnificent gift?”

“I thought you might like to listen to it sometimes. When you are at Brocket Hall.”

 

Suddenly he knows that, somehow, she has discovered the truth.

He should have noticed at the beginning, when she wore a too bright smile and spoke with a too cheerful voice, when her hands trembled when he took hold of them.

And now she looks sad and serious, with tears brimming in the corner of her eyes

But he does not say anything. What good would it do to bring it all out in the open when they can pretend, one last time, that everything is as it once was.

 

“I shan't be able to travel much soon,” she continues bravely on despite her clear distress, “and so I wanted you to have something to remind you … of all the fun to be had in London when you choose to return.”

Her present is lovely. The sort of kind, personal thing that reminds him of one of the many reasons he loves her so.

And she tries so hard to act normally, to speak of his return to London as if it is a certainty rather than something they both know will probably never happen.

It is painful to watch her pretend, but he thinks it would be worse for her to accept the reality, so he only gives her a small, soft smile, “that's most thoughtful. It is a beautiful thing.”

She stands quickly and he follows slowly.

 

“These are such difficult times,” she shakes her head, “I … I wish you were not so far away.”

“Oh, I feel quite certain that you can manage without me now, Ma'am.”

And she can of course. She has always been special but now she is magnificent and has far surpassed the need for what guidance he has been honoured to give her.

She will be alright. He is sure of it.

They share a look then, just for a few moments. But so much passes between them in those seconds. The acknowledgement of those years that were so precious to them both, of the connection that will never be severed … of a love that will never quite die.

 

“You will write to me?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, though they both know there is no guarantee, that even just letters between them are difficult things now, “yes, of course.”

“When you return from Brocket Hall, we must go riding in the park … like we used to.”

She is in denial, of course, but he understands. How he wishes they could do it. How much he would give to have enough health for just one more day of riding with her.

“Such talks we had, Ma'am,” he says with a wistful little smile, for even though movement can be difficult now his mind is still working well enough and he can remember so many of their conversations, on topics ranging from the important to the trivial, fact to fiction, serious to absurd.

“I learnt so much from you, you know,” he tells her, wanting so badly for her to understand how much she means to him.

“You learnt from me?” she asks, confused and almost disbelieving.

She will never know just how much she taught him about life and love, about carrying on and staying strong.

“More than you can imagine,” he tells her.

More, he thinks, than can ever be truly explained.

 

She smiles at him then, and though he has seen many smiles on her face over the years he thinks this one is the most beautiful, the most radiant … the smile that he will remember until the end.

This, he thinks, is a perfect clarity between them, an understanding that he will soon be gone and she will live on for years, but that what was (is) between them will remain no matter what.

They will never forget.

 

“Goodbye, Lord M.”

She takes his hands and it is like her wedding day all over again, but there is a sadness in the air that cannot be banished, a true knowledge that the end is nearing.

Then she drops his hands and turns her head, hurrying out of the room before he can think to reply to her.

The door closes behind her and he stands there, bereft already.

“Goodbye, Ma’am,” he whispers to an empty room.

 

* * *

 

A day later William, tired and frail, watches a mechanical bird sing Mozart and thinks about the Queen he loves.

Then the bird falls silent and all is still.

 


	2. Victoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria. Any recognisable lines belong to Daisy Goodwin and the TV series.

_‘Picture perfect memories_

_Scattered all around the floor.’_

_Need You Now – Lady Antebellum_

 

* * *

 

“It’s most curious,” Victoria says to Emma, “I have written to Lord M several times and received no reply.”

“He has not answered my letters either, Ma’am.”

The two of them share a look, a worry for their mutual dear friend.

“Could you go and see him? Find out what’s the matter.”

It will be nothing, Victoria thinks, probably just an unreliable post or letters lost beneath papers for Lord M’s study of St Chrysostom.

“Yes, of course, Ma’am.”

Yes, Victoria thinks, Emma’s visit will surely clear everything up.

 

* * *

 

“The ball must be fancy dress so that everyone will have a new costume made of Spitalfields silk,” Victoria declares, “and it will be a chance to see so many old friends. Harriet must come.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And I have written to Lord M. I want to fill my dance card.”

Surely he will not refuse such an invitation. Emma says that he apologised for not replying to his letter but that he had been much occupied with his greenhouse and St Chrysostom.

She knew there would be an explanation. Lord M is after all usually so punctual a correspondent.

And now she will get to see him at the ball and it will be wonderful.

 

* * *

Victoria trips slightly down stairs as she walks towards the ballroom, only to find a steadying hand by her side.

“Can I be of assistance, Ma’am?”

She knows that voice. Knows that phrase, and has flashbacks to the day her portrait was unveiled, of dear Lord M who helped her in her moment of need.

“Thank you,” she says, catching a glimpse of the face beneath the hood and laughing delightedly when she finds her guess is correct, “Lord M.”

“My disguise is not very effective, it seems,” he smiles warmly at her and she is so pleased to see him.

“I am so glad you could come. Why I see so little of you now.”

And she is sorry for it. She knows she has learnt much from him, but there is so much she still does not know and he always knows exactly how to cheer her up and explain things in a far easier manner than Sir Robert.

 

“Well I am no longer your Prime Minister, Ma’am, and we’re both rather busy elsewhere.”

“I suppose your orchids must be very time-consuming,” she jokes.

“Very,” he says with a wry smile.

  
“I did wonder if you might be unwell,” she says quietly.

“Illness is for people with nothing better to do, Ma’am,” he tells dismissively.

She thinks she must have been mistaken in her worry for her health. He seems in excellent humour this evening after all and surely he would tell her the truth if he were really unwell.

“Then you have no excuse for not answering my letters,” she tells him, feeling a little bad for pestering him but determined to ensure that he begins to write to her once more, for no letters she receives are ever as funny and clever as his.

“Well I would if I thought you really needed my counsel, Ma’am,” he tells her, “but you’re quite capable now of going your own way. You don’t need me to tell you when you’re doing the right thing.”

She tries to smile but thinks her expression seems false. She does not like to hear him say such things.

 “I see … perhaps you are right, Lord Melbourne. After all, we cannot be as we were.”

Her hurt bleeds into her voice and makes her words come out sharper than she means. But she is upset and she misses the way things were, the easy way in which they always used to talk.

“No indeed,” he agrees carefully as they accept drinks from a passing servant and she immediately regrets her momentary anger.

She turns away to nod briefly at a passing guest and when she looks back at Lord M she smiles in the hope that he will understand that she is sorry for her brief sharpness.

“Shall we join the party?” she asks, and when he nods she feels relief.

This evening will be perfect. She is sure.

 

\--------------------

 

“What a magnificent spectacle, Ma’am,” he tells her as they watch the guests.

“My current Prime Minister thinks it’s all together too splendid,” she admits with a little guilt, “but look at all the beautiful silk, woven especially for the occasion. I want this ball to be a symbol of how the crown can help the people.”

She hopes he understands. Lord M’s opinion means so much to her.

“You make a very persuasive case, Ma’am,” he answers, but his voice sounds a little distracted.

“And you agree with me?” she asks eagerly.

 “I think the ball has many admirable features.”

She is glad of his approval, “I wanted him to have his own crown,” she looks at Albert, who looks so handsome.

“I'm sure he's very grateful, ma'am. As I'm sure are the silk weavers.”

Oh yes, she hopes so. She really does want very badly to help.

But something is wrong. She does not know what but she feels uneasy in a way she has never done before with Lord M.

“You don’t talk like you used to,” she says.

“I’m out of practice, Ma’am.”

Victoria says nothing. She allows him this little falsehood.

Because Lord M was not out of practice when she saw him so recently during her visit to Brocket Hall’s greenhouse. His face was a little more lined, his hair greyer, but his conversation had been as charming, understanding, clever and quick as always.

 

She hears music and it offers a happy distraction, “shall we dance? After all it won’t be long until my dancing days are over.”

He looks wary, “I would like to, Ma’am, but I …”

She will not have his protests, though, not when she sees him so rarely as now, “but it is a waltz, Lord M,”

“In that case,” he tells her with an amused air of acceptance, “we must seize the moment.”

 

He leads her well, as he always has, and it feels as if no time has passed since their last dance.

“You know,” she says, “all those years growing up in Kensington, I never knew what it meant to be happy.”

Between mama’s control and Sir John’s looming presence she can scarcely remember a cheerful time at her old home.

“But you knew it was possible,” he says.

“Oh I knew I would make my own way,” she agrees with certainty, “… one day.”

That day had come on the morning Lord M had arrived to see her, when she had obtained her freedom and a dear, kind friend on the same day. She hopes he knows, hopes he realises how big a part he had to play in her happiness.

 

 “There could be no doubt about that, Ma’am,” he agrees, “I really do think that you and the Prince,” he smiles, a little sadly, “are just what the country needs. You’re a beacon of … you’re a beacon of …”

She looks at him with alarm. Lord M never usually loses track of his words like this.

“Whatever’s the matter?” she asks him, desperate for him to make a joke or speak some witty line to reassure her that there is nothing wrong.

But he says nothing, only moans slightly.

She looks around for help, but sees no one who can help.

Then Emma suddenly appears, “the Prince is asking for you.”

“It can wait," she says, distracted by Lord M.

“No, Ma’am! He is most insistent.”

She looks between Emma’s attempt at a reassuring smile and Lord M leaning heavily on a candle holder. Against her better judgement she heeds Emma’s instructions and goes to find Albert.  
  
Later, when she realises the truth, she will regret her choice to leave.

 

* * *

 

“May I have a word, Ma’am?” asks Emma the next day, as Victoria’s mind is stuck on the failure of her ball, “I wonder if I might take a leave of absence to visit my sister. She has had a difficult confinement and I would very much like to help in her recovery.”

“Of course, Emma,” she agrees immediately, “you must go if your sister needs you. I hope you won’t stay away too long. The Duchess is not the most congenial companion.”

They both laugh together, though Emma still seems sad. Perhaps, Victoria thinks, she is just worried about her sister – after all confinements are bad enough when there are no difficulties.

“I will come back as soon as I am no longer needed, Ma’am.”

A memory comes to her, a snippet of a conversation she once had with Lord M, “doesn’t your sister’s estate lie next to Brocket Hall?”

“Well remembered, Ma’am.”

Victoria almost bursts out laughing – as if she could forget dear Lord M.

“So you can see Lord M, whenever you like.”

Lucky Emma, she thinks. Victoria does wish Lord M were closer.

“That is true, Ma’am,” Emma agrees.

  
Victoria wanders off, calling to Dash, and thinking that it will be nice for Emma to be able to see her sister and dear Lord M so often.

 

* * *

 

“All alone?” asks Albert as she sits on her window seat absent-mindedly stroking Dash’s fur.

“Emma Portman has gone to her sister's,” she explains, “Harriet has left and Lord M never comes to town.”

She misses her old friend. There had not been enough time at the ball to really talk with him, and there is so much she wants to speak with him about.

“I saw him today,” Albert admits.

“You saw him?” she asks immediately, attention entirely focused on Albert now, “was he well? At the ball, he did not quite seem himself.”

The uneasy feeling she experienced at the ball returns now, the worry that there is something wrong. It increases as Albert stays silent and looks very gravely at her.

“What is it?” she asks, and then more frantically, “what is it, Albert? You must tell me the truth.”

“Lord Melbourne is ill. Gravely so.”

 

And suddenly Victoria cannot breathe, cannot understand, cannot accept it.

She thinks of Lord M and pictures the man who went riding so often with her and never seemed fatigued, who laughed and talked for hours. She cannot reconcile the man in her memories with what Albert is telling her.

“Why didn't he tell me?” she asks softly.

“He does not want you to know. So, as you care for him, you must say nothing.”

She nods almost absent-mindedly, too busy trying to contain her emotions to realise the difficulty of keeping the secret of Lord M’s illness.

 

* * *

Victoria goes to visit Lord M.

It may not be wise, especially as she will need to try and keep up the façade that she knows nothing about his illness, but she cannot let him go back to Brocket Hall without a proper farewell.

Not when … not when it might be their last goodbye.

 

She speaks with the butler, who leads her towards Lord M’s study.

When she reaches the door she pauses for a moment, fixes a bright smile on her face that she hopes does not seem too fake, and then nods to the butler to announce her.

She can do this. For Lord M, she can be brave.

 

\--------------------

 

“I am glad to have caught you before you disappeared back to Brocket Hall,” she says cheerfully as she enters.

He stands, slower than he used to and a little hunched over. She wonders why she never noticed before, but of course Lord M will have hidden what he could – he never did like to distress her.

“Your Majesty,” he says, as flustered as he had been by her unplanned visit to Dover House so many years ago, “please allow me to apologise for not saying good night at the ball.”

“There is no need,” she assures him as she offers him her hand.

He clasps hold of it and presses a kiss to her gloved hand. When he lets go of her hand she feels bereft.

“Please, sit,” she says, conscious of his difficulty in remaining standing and not wanting him to be in pain.

He slumps into his chair with clear relief and she feels tears in the corners of her eyes at the sight of his infirmities.

 

“I have brought you something,” she picks up her present and brings it over to the table next to him.

He looks on with curiosity as she unveils the birdcage stuffed bird within it.

“You just wind it up here … and you can have music whenever you want.”

She looks eagerly at him, hoping so much that he likes it.

“Mozart,” she says, “your favourite.”

He smiles at her and she feels relief surge through her, “it's most ingenious, Ma'am.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is a little choked, “but may I ask, what have I done to deserve such a magnificent gift?”

 

She does not have enough time to answer _that_ question. Lord M has done so much for her. From their very first meeting to the way he continues to offer the best of advice. He has supported her through good times and bad, believed in her when no one else did, helped her learn what love is, taught her so much she never had the chance to learn about politics and history and numerous topics aside.

He was everything to her at one time, and even now she has Albert he is still her dearest Lord M.

This gift is nothing compared to what he has given her.

 

But her words fail her and she knows she will not be able to give him a truthful answer without crying.

“I thought you might like to listen to it sometimes,” she says instead, “when you are at Brocket Hall.”

“I shan't be able to travel much soon,” she continues, “and so I wanted you to have something to remind you … of all the fun to be had in London when you choose to return.”

He gives her a small smile, “that's most thoughtful. It is a beautiful thing.”

She bites her lip to hold back tears, and stands abruptly, knowing that she will not be able to stay much longer without giving herself away completely.

 

He stands too, slowly, and she shakes her head, “these are such difficult times. I … I wish you were not so far away.”

“Oh, I feel quite certain that you can manage without me now, Ma'am,” he says.

She can see that he believes his words. And she thinks he is right. But the truth is she does not _want_ to manage without him.

They share a look, a silent communication. And she thinks he understands her perfectly in that moment, just as she does him.

They will part but they will not forget, not ever.

 

“You will write to me?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, “yes, of course.”

A kind lie, but she does not mention it.

“When you return from Brocket Hall, we must go riding in the park … like we used to.”

If she says it enough, she thinks, then maybe it will happen. Maybe Lord M will get better and return to London and they will one day be able to ride down the avenue as they once did so often.

 “Such talks we had, Ma'am,” he says with a wistful sigh.

Oh, their talks. She misses his conversation so much. Not even her darling Albert can speak as well as Lord M.

“I learnt so much from you, you know,” he tells her, and her eyes widen.

“You learnt from me?” she asks, sure that she must have misheard, for it has always been Lord M who was the teacher.

 “More than you can imagine,” he says gently.

And then she understands, and it is such a privilege to know this, to understand that she helped him as he helped her.

 

“Goodbye, Lord M.”

The words taste like ash in her mouth, but all things must come to an end, even when it hurts.

She turns her head so he does not see her sadness, for she knows it will upset her.

And then, with a heavy heart that will always hold the marks made by the first man she ever loved, Victoria leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

Victoria barely manages to hold her tears in as she walks from the room, and when she reaches her carriage she finally gives in to all her emotions, crying for most of the journey back to the palace as she begins to come to terms with the likelihood that she will never see Lord M again.

She is more composed when she enters to the palace, heading towards her rooms. A cuddle with Dash will cheer her up a little, she is sure.

When she enters her sitting room, she does not notice to begin with, does not hear Skerrett’s soft gasp.

Then she sees what has shocked her dresser and her heart breaks all over again.

Dash, dear little Dashy who has been a constant companion and comfort, especially during the hard years at Kensington, lies stiff and unmoving on the carpet.

Victoria cannot bear it.

 

She drops to the floor and barely registers the sound of Skerrett’s hurried footsteps fleeing the room.

All she feels is sorrow. The only sound in her ears is that of her own sobs.

Albert arrives and his arms encircle her gently, but not even that can comfort her, not today.

“Oh, Liebes. Oh, I am so sorry.”

“He was always there,” she sobs out, “I can't bear it.”

“Yes, you can,” Albert tells her, “he was old, Liebes. His time had come.”

“I will miss him so much.”

She knows as she says the words that she is not just talking about Dash. Lord M is still here, but she knows in her heart that she may never see him again, that today was a goodbye almost as final as dear Dash’s death.

So she cries for them both. Because life might be happy again, but it will never be the same.

 

* * *

 

_His attachment was without selfishness_

_His playfulness without malice_

_His fidelity without deceit_

_READER_

_If you would be beloved and die regretted_

_Profit by the example of_

_DASH_

 

Victoria buries Dash with only Lehzen by her side, Lehzen who knows best how much Dash meant to her, especially during those lonely years at Kensington.

She finishes reading the words she plans to have inscribed on the gravestone and looks over the small newly-dug mound with tears in her eyes.

There will be many other dogs, she knows, but none will ever be quite as beloved to her as dear Dash.

 

* * *

 

Years later Albert will tell Victoria of his final conversation with Lord Melbourne and she will weep.

Because Lord M left behind no monuments or magnificent buildings, no great reforms.

But he left his imprint on her. He taught her about government, gave her strength and support and friendship and love when she most needed them.

She is his legacy. And she will do her best to be what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
